by Zane
Running his tongue down the valley between her peaks, he stopped when he reached her pubic hair. Spreading her legs wider with his head, he nuzzled her wiry, soft fuzz and the lips of her vulva until they were soaked. His tongue circled her opening, then moved inside probing for her clit. Like a snake meticulously looking for prey, he rooted until finding her miniature penis. She gasped.
No longer a random search but now a focused longing, his broad tongue captured her essence with a frenzied embrace. She grabbed his hair, arched her back, and almost stood as she reacted to the rapierlike dashing and darting of his clapper around her organ. Her vaginal fluids increased and her body shuddered as she succumbed to his ceaseless stimulations with a deep moan.
“Stop, stop, please stop,” she cried, pulling his face from her. “That was wonderful.”
Standing, he moved her body until her head hung over the edge of the bed. He rubbed his dribbling penis over her sensuous lips, and pushed forward until her mouth opened and engulfed him. He groaned at the pleasure and gazed at her hooters as they hung downward in an unusual but inviting position. Using his hands, he manipulated, rolled, pushed, and pulled them, attempting to calm the itching of his palms. Bending to one side, he took one breast into his mouth, sucking, licking, and running his tongue over and around her nipple. At the same time, he gently moved his penis within her fervent mouth and enjoyed the sensations shooting through his body.
He moved to her other breast and treated it adoringly, lovingly, reverently, and with increasing passion. The multiple stimulations were incredible and he focused on the strain in his legs and back to forestall his pending ejaculation. Standing and pulling himself from her, he marveled at the beauty of her body and the growing fire in his loins.
Returning to her breasts, his hands manipulated and marveled at their softness and smoothness. His desire to become one with her was overwhelming, and her positive, audible, visible responses to his caresses drove him on. Dropping to his elbows and forearms to protect her body from his weight, he nudged her legs apart and his mouth eagerly sought her sexual interior. His tongue went straight to her clit and she moaned unceasingly as he ravaged her. She grabbed him by the ass and pulled him toward her, but stopped short of taking him into her mouth because her body experienced a series of convulsions, and she screamed in pleasure.
“I’m ready! I’m ready! Give it to me! Give it to me!” she begged.
Chas spun her like a top and pulled her to the edge of the bed. She appeared shocked, with tight lips and a stunned look in her eyes. He spread her legs, lifted them to his shoulders, and then inch-by-inch penetrated her until he could go no deeper. She swooned when his penis contacted her core.
“Stroke me! Stroke me!” she said, urging him on.
The walls of her canal enclosed his probe and squeezed tight. Stooping and holding her by the hips, he thrust slowly and incrementally increased his speed. Gabriela groaned with each shove and her moaning never stopped. He pumped faster and harder. Her constant cry, the grimace on her face, and the swaying of her breasts in rhythm with their movements energized him. Physically and emotionally, he was approaching his limit.
In a crescendo of pleasure, she raised her pelvis to meet his thrust and sobbed, “Now! Now! Now! I want it now!”
He continued until, with one last shove, he released his pent-up passion in a series of spasms. He flooded her fissure with fluid and emitted a howl from deep within his being. The flow was indescribable ecstasy. He pulled her closer because he wasn’t ready to leave the comfort of her body.
After a long time being entombed, he fell to the bed and they cuddled, indulging in the afterglow of mutual satisfaction. They fell asleep, entwined in each other’s arms.
It was six A.M. Linda had had a long, busy night, more tricks and pricks than she could remember. She was sore and tired but anxious to see Chas again. Strange that neither he nor Gabriela were in the living room. She looked in her bedroom but they weren’t there. Maybe he left to return to the States, she thought. Looking down the hall, she saw a light in Gabriella’s room. Quietly opening the door, she looked in. Startled, she stepped back, then silently, in her bare feet, strode to the side of the bed. Gabriela, with a smile on her face, lay naked, her head pillowed on Chas’s arm. Her shapely derriere was tucked into his crotch like part of a jigsaw puzzle and his left hand cupped her breast as a basket holds a melon. Chas’s handsome face was buried in Gabriela’s mane of black hair and the lean muscles of his body were articulated by the shadows cast by the muted light.
Looking at them, she was disappointed and angry. Disappointed because she craved his gorgeous body and penile skills. Angry because he had despoiled her sister. Disappointed because she remembered his large dick impaling her on the cot at San Miguel’s, holding her in place and bringing her to an unwanted, unwelcome, unexpected but incredible orgasm. Angry because she could understand why a guy the caliber of Chas wouldn’t want a puta when he could have a young girl like Gabriela. Disappointed because she remembered the unexpected, exhilarating thrill of the desired orgasm he had brought her with his throbbing cock and succulent mouth. Angry because her sister, who she loved more than anyone in the world, had stolen him from her. Disappointed because she had plotted to have him waylaid and taken to her home. Angry because her plan had not worked as she wanted.
With tears in her eyes, she backed from the room, silently and solemnly. Through a mist she gazed at the serenity of the lovers and the beauty of their entangled bodies. Thinking sadly, she would always remember his looks, his talent, and his first words: “Are you available?”
Borderline
Kim Rose
Lorna Landry has never been fucked like this before. In all of her thirty-one years, she has never been lifted from her feet and placed down gently on her back to await the next levels of stimulation. Never been thrown down forcefully in anticipation of a good, rough screw, for that matter. Strong hands have never massaged and cultivated a channel from her scalp to the spaces between her toes. Never has an eager tongue followed the same path. It’s a shame that wet, hungry lips have never met the backs of her kneecaps, meandering north like a balloon in the wind. There has never been much activity on Lorna’s lean thighs, much less a raging hard-on pressing urgently into her soft flesh.
Can you believe that a confident scholar like Lorna, who has penned and been published amongst the highest-profile academics, could not before this moment translate into words the feeling of her generous breasts feeling small and secure within the palms of a man’s insistent hands? Had never even considered that her nipples could fit so neatly in the webs between his fingers? That there might be a flavor to the underside of them, and that he might hunger for it? Might beg to taste her inside and out? But this is exactly what she imagines.
“Lorna.”
This feels so primal, so jungle, that the rumbling down deep in Lorna’s gut warns of a devastating storm. Sure enough, that hurricane tongue sends her ducking for cover, desperately awaiting the heavy downpour like the barren Mojave. Calling her name like the howling category-5 wind.
“Lorna! Damn it, Lorna!”
And just like that, it is gone. Lorna is used to falling short of a climax, but this time feels especially real. Unforgiving.
“Jesus Christ, Lorna! Focus! If you are not up to the job, then please step aside and let a competent photog relieve you of your duties.”
Today, Lorna is among over fifty zealous do-gooders who show up on Arizona Avenue before the rays of dawn. They are self-appointed and self-righteous, and stopping the employment of illegal immigrants is their cause. Tucked away in high-end haciendas beyond the city limits of San Diego, they are mostly white-collar with white skin, and that’s how they’d like to keep their neighborhoods, and this country for that matter. Among them are Lorna and her husband, who, like the rest, are committed to the cause and obsessed with the pursuit of national recognition.
Across the street an unsuspecting white cargo van pulls into a liq
uor store parking lot promptly at eight A.M. Within seconds, the vehicle is surrounded on all sides by a swarm of brown men looking for work, eyes as intense as their heavy accents and sun-baked skin.
The crowd looms even larger through the lens of the MiniDV camcorder Lorna has trained on the scene. In the past year she has seen hundreds of these men: harmless, indigent congregations of carpenters, landscapers, and cleaners paid to do the work that not even the poorest Yankees will accept. Truth be told, Lorna can’t tell one from the next. To her, they are little more than objects to be captured and studied. So every day she stands video vigil like an obsessed voyeur, and records the every move of the “undesirable foreigners,” the monotonous mass of paper-bag complexions.
But this one is a god among men. He stands a full foot above the heads of the others. He is fresh from the border, Lorna figures, on the scene now less than two weeks.
His plaid cutoff shirt is merely a distracting prop for sturdy shoulders and rippling arms that look capable of supporting two men on each. His tan pants, the only pair he seems to own, are tattered at the knee and frayed at the hem, bulging in the middle. Lorna can’t help pulling in for a tight shot of his mighty knot. She has been transfixed by this god since the moment he emerged on the dayworker scene.
Lorna can feel the hot breath spewing from her husband, Tom’s, wiry lips, even through the shiny red bullhorn.
“Keep up! It’s almost showtime!” he roars. “You think you can handle that?”
She nods, still preoccupied, disoriented, and horny. He turns around, his eyes following hers to the tall, striking figure across the street. He places a finger on her chin, guiding her eyes reluctantly back to him. She gathers herself, not even noticing that Tom continues to berate her to the amusement of their colleagues.
“Let’s rock and roll, soldiers,” calls Lorna’s lookout. “The United States border needs us.”
Before Lorna can pull back to a wider shot, focus, and press the red record button, the white van is almost totally encircled by the ambitious mob. Vigilante feet cross the street to the liquor store parking lot, anxiously approaching the first ambush of the week.
“Sir, did you know that hiring illegal immigrants is against the law? This is what you’re here for, right? Prowling for illegal dayworkers?”
Spit splatters with the accusations intended for the van’s driver. Angry, beet-red fingers claw at the windows, pressing down hard as the confused driver rushes to roll them back up.
Defeated brown faces sense what is happening. “¡Hibridos! Gringos!”
Lorna is a step behind the mêlée, capturing it all on the tape her group is desperate to sell to CNN. Her normally steady hands are suddenly wobbly, her vision unfocused, rattled, and hyperaware of the powerful presence she knows is hidden somewhere in the mix. She follows closely behind her husband, the creator and star of this spectacle, making sure he appears towering by her low angles, his voice heard clearly above all others.
“We demand that you leave the premises immediately, and if you select any workers from this illegal Mexican labor pool”—Tom shouts, briefly staring into Lorna’s video camera—“we have captured time-stamped video images of you, your license plates and, essentially, your intentions, which we will not hesitate to share with federal law enforcement!”
Actually, Lorna hasn’t yet managed to get a shot of the tags. She isn’t even certain she got a clear shot of the driver, who is now covering his face with a newspaper. At the moment, all she can see is the sea of callused worker hands raised in protest, her own fingers shaking and clammy. She does manage to see the guy who throws the first punch, a matter of inches from her nose.
Her body is rocked from one end of the liquor store parking lot to the next, as fists and fury fly freely around the white van. The driver is pulled out, or perhaps he hops out, incensed. Either way, he finds his demise on the ground beside Lorna’s husband, Tom, who caught a bad one from a stocky brown gardener in chalky work boots. Tom cradles his nose and his shiny bullhorn like a newborn, he himself folded in a fetal flop.
Panicked, Lorna takes two steps back before slamming into a brick wall, her camera plunging to the asphalt. She had no idea she was so close to the storefront that will serve as her refuge, but she quickly bends down to scoop up her camera and take cover before she ends up on the ground with a broken nose, too.
Her hands meet with his—pale against bronze—and she retracts, leaping to her feet, much in the way her heart also dives from her chest.
“You thieving wetback! That is American property and I will have your filthy ass back in the bush so fast, heads are gonna roll!” Her body is convulsing violently, undermining her feigned authority. She resents knowing that there is fear evident in her eyes, and avoids connecting with his. Her head is pounding wildly, and yet there is a curious pool gathering between her thighs.
He stands up slowly, and casually takes a step back. The camera’s knowing red eye stares up at him, yet he is neither nervous nor self-conscious. He is amused, and insanely intuitive, fluently interpreting the implications of Lorna’s unstable knees, shallow breaths, light perspiration, crimson complexion, and involuntary tremors. As the sun stretches in the east, there is a celestial erection stirring in the west. And Lorna Landry has it all on tape.
“Attack me again, amigo, and I will have your dirty Mexican mug on every news channel in America,” Lorna warns, fumbling both her words and her camera.
She quickly turns to run inside and notices the building is another twenty feet away. Then she scans the brown-skinned tower standing before her, smells his clean, leafy scent on her skin, and realizes he is the brick house she slammed into, not the building. She is swiftly panicked, the mob assault around her is suddenly silent, and she does her best to escape it.
Not sure of whether to run back across the street or inside, her feet travel like a magnet toward the beautiful, dark statue, who is watching her think. She floats without breathing, and he subtly pushes out his chest, brushing against Lorna’s flushed red face as she passes. This is the same shirtless torso she has spent the last two weeks watching glisten and bake in the California sun. She has always been content with the view from behind the camera, leaving no inch of the sculpted foreign beauty unnoticed. Until today.
She gasps. She is on fire in that split second of contact, and she is finally behind the door of the liquor store, wishing she were a misty cloud disappearing into his sunrise.
There is a bell above the door that jingles upon her entry into the liquor store, signifying her presence to the worker behind the plate-glass counter and signaling Lorna’s reemergence from her fantasy. She is out of breath and rattled, and her first instinct is to lock the door behind her. The stern eye of the brown man behind the plate-glass counter warns otherwise. Instead Lorna stalks past rows of tobacco and spirits, and finds refuge in the last aisle. Her eyes dart wildly around her until they settle on a short bottle of white rum. With her camera squeezed under her arm, she opens the bottle and swigs long, a trail of fire winding down past her heaving chest. She drinks until tears form at the corners of her eyes and her sinuses clear. She can still hear the fighting outside and is worried for her husband. Worried about their colleagues and their cause. But she is more concerned about satisfying the battle raging below her belt.
The deep desire pulsating throughout her body, coupled with the pressure rising in her ears, drowns out the sound of the jingle above the door.
This time Lorna is relaxed, oddly calmed by the anticipation. The sudden seizure between her thighs is like an instinct, a sordid gut feeling of sorts. She feels him before he ever appears.
And appear he does, in all his brazen glory. He approaches Lorna in the last aisle of the shady liquor store with the swaggering stride of a sexual savior. Lorna Landry’s prayers are about to be answered.
She splashes the remains of the rum at him. Trying to buy time. Acting out. Resentful of the control he possesses without provocation. Rebelling against the se
xual Svengali that she is desperate to follow. He is unfazed. He stops just inches from her, the insteps of his work boots flanking her sensible flats. He lifts the back of his hand to his nose, inhales the brutal poison, wipes it on the back of his fading tan pants. Takes the bottle from her hands and places it on the nearest shelf. Sets her camera, still recording, beside it.
Lorna Landry has never felt a harder body in all of her thirty-one years. She is not a small woman, and she has never been so easily handled. When he pulls her forcefully to him by the waistband of her skirt, her body floats, without her feet ever moving. Instead, it is her hands that are immediately in motion. Her eager caresses of his solid chest and arms quickly turn to insistent and urgent clutches under his T-shirt. Her fingers glide incredulously over ripples and waves of flesh that far surpass even her wildest imagination.
He stands motionless for one moment more, allowing Lorna a decent introduction to his physical supremacy. Then, without warning, he cuffs her pale wrists in one hand and holds them tight. Her breath is arrested, the unending stream of wet desire confessing a list of transgressions and guilt, all the way down her legs. His lips are hot and cold, satisfying the temperament of her barren nipples. Her bra is pulled down, an afterthought, his hands effectively replacing it. Then his tongue goes beyond the surface, tracing over the lines of deep-set yearning and deprivation developed over the years, effortlessly erasing them.
